


Seven Days

by ready_to_kick_some_ass



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depressive Thoughts, Drug Use, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-09-01 03:47:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8606074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ready_to_kick_some_ass/pseuds/ready_to_kick_some_ass
Summary: The end lasted seven days.





	

 

_The end lasted seven days._

 

  **Monday.**

Rain was beating against the window in a rhythmic staccato.  
Sherlock sat with closed eyes in his armchair. His fingers drumming worriedly on the armrest of his chair.  
He had had no cases for days now.  
London seemed to be as calm as never before, even during these cold, dark and grey November days.  
Grey in grey. The colour of boredom.  
The life outside flowed sluggishly and slowly by. Without any hurry. Like a river.  
Sherlock lifted his head, as foot steps approached him.  
John …  
He opened his eyes and saw how John sat down in his own armchair. The doctor threw him a questioning look. „Lestrade has not called yet?“  
“No”, answered Sherlock and sighed deeply. „One could think, the murderers of London are waiting for the sun.“  
„Like we are?“, John asked teasingly.  
Sherlock snorted. „The sun can remain stolen to me“, he murmured fiercely. „I need a murder. And I need it fast.“  
John laughed softly. „You surely are the only person in all of London who will ever say this sentence.“  
„I am also the only Consulting Detective, John …“  
„Yes. Yes, you are.“

 

  **Tuesday.**

Sherlock walked nervously back and forth in his room.        
His thoughts were racing in his head. Restlessly. It was absolutely impossible to turn them off.  
A case … He needed a case.  
He buckled on the couch with an irritated groan. No case. Nothing to do.  
The boredom was unbearable.  
If John was not here with him, he would have gone mad by now. Or would have used other methods to deflect himself.  
John was his rescue, his anchor. Even if John maybe thought differently.  
At the moment everything was so strange - with John.  
John was in his own room and crying. And from time to time he screamed.  
It was … strange.

 

  **Wednesday.**

„Do you still remember, when we caught this circus murderer in the clown costume?“  
„Oh, yes,“ said Sherlock and smiled briefly. „You fell into the cake. In the middle of the circus ring. Everybody thought, it was a part of the show. Until Lestrade and the other policemen stormed the tent …“  
John laughed softly. „I must say, I would have had nothing against staying in the cake a bit longer.” „What a shame that Mycroft wasn’t there …“  
This time they both laughed.  
Later Sherlock played his violin. He played John’s favourite piece. He loved the sight of John relaxing to the music. He loved the soft smile on John’s face.  
Lately John wasn’t relaxed very often.  
It made Sherlock … happy, to see him like this.  
So he played.  
And he played, until suddenly the phone rang.  
John didn’t react. He stayed seated in his armchair and watched Sherlock when he put aside his violin and picked up the phone.  
„Yes?“, he barked impatiently. Could be Lestrade, he thought.  
“Sherlock”, Mycroft answered and Sherlock’s excitement faded in favour of disappointment. “Mycroft”, he said drily and rolled his eyes to John who answered with a knowing grin.  
„I heard that you let yourself go again“, Mycroft said seriously and Sherlock groaned loudly in response. „Oh please, who is saying this? I’ve been sitting around here for days already without a case. With John.“  
Mycroft didn’t answer immediately. Sherlock heard him breathing for nearly a minute. Usually, Mycroft never needed time for an answer on the phone.  
Sherlock frowned and saw how John lifted his eyebrows questioningly. Sherlock shrugged. „What do you want Mycroft? John and I wanted to talk about an old case.“  
“I … Sherlock, are you sure that you’re fine? “, Mycroft asked and Sherlock winced in amazement at these words. “Sorry?“, he asked nonplussed.  
„Nothing …“, Mycroft answered softly and cleared his throat. „Can you … greet John from me“  
„This is getting more and more ridiculous, but yes, I can greet him from you.“  
„Well. Thank you. See you soon, Sherlock.“  
„Hopefully not“, Sherlock said quickly and hung up, before Mycroft could answer.  
John grinned.

 

  **Thursday.**

Sherlock felt dazed.  
He asked John whether he’d gotten influenza.  
He shuddered with the thought of it.  
He couldn’t get ill now. He had to be ready.  
Ready, if Lestrade called. If anyone needed him. Him and John.  
And he had to be there for John.  
Lately, John drank a little more than was good for him in the evenings …  
Scotch. Always Scotch.  
And then he stared into the flames of the fireplace with a vague look and Sherlock didn’t know what he should do.  
He didn’t like these evenings.  
A case certainly would be good for John too. It would distract him.  
When he asked John if he was getting ill, John put a hand on his forehead and Sherlock closed his eyes at the touch. It was pleasant to feel John’s chill skin on his own. When John took away his hand again and shook his head softly; when he said, no, it is not influenza, Sherlock wished, he would have left his hand on his forehead a little longer …

 

**Friday.**  
  
Sherlock was just examining a glove which he had impregnated with acid, as Mycroft suddenly stood in the middle of the room, with raised eyebrows and his hands folded over the compulsory umbrella. „Hello, Sherlock“, he said calmly.  
Sherlock snorted indignantly. „Please, I must concentrate. What do you want?“  
„I wanted to check up on you.“  
Sherlock looked up from  the glove with reluctance. Annoyance stirred in him.  
„You want to check whether I am clean, right? Please, I am absolutely clean. You can ask John.“  
Mycroft flinched when John’s name was mentioned and Sherlock looked at his brother in confusion, as a mixture of pain and pity appeared on his face. „Sherlock …“  
„What?“, snapped Sherlock and turned away again, bent over the glove once more. Mycroft’s behaviour confused him. Moreover, the light daze came over him again. The room swayed a bit before his eyes. It was annoying.  
„You can ask John whether I am clean. He must be in his room. He was very tired today. Lately he has been having many nightmares again. If you don’t mind, I have to work.”  
Suddenly, Mycroft was beside him and his hand closed around Sherlock’s right wrist. Sherlock twitched in amazement and stared into Mycroft’s sad face.  
„What does this mean, Mycroft?“ Sherlock pulled back his wrist. However, he couldn’t escape from Mycroft’s astonishingly firm clutch. „Let go of me!“  
“Sherlock”, said Mycroft urgently. „Listen to me? Please, listen to me. Only five minutes.“  
Sherlock looked from Mycrofts face to his hand and back. He growled indignantly. „Fine. Five minutes.“  
They sat down in the armchairs in front of the fireplace. Sherlock in John’s chair. Mycroft in Sherlock’s.  
„Well?“, asked Sherlock irritated and drummed a nervous rhythm on the armrest with his fingertips.  
Mycroft took a deep breath and straightened. When he began to speak, his voice was softer than usual. „Sherlock … where is John right now?“  
Sherlock raised his eyebrows. „Where should he be? He is upstairs. In his room. As I already said.“  
Mycroft scrutinized him for a moment. Then he said softly: „No. No, Sherlock. John isn’t in his room.“  
„Has he gone without telling me?“, asked Sherlock thoughtfully. „This happens sometimes if I concentrate too hard … Every now and then. But this isn’t good for him at the moment … The alcohol…“  
„Sherlock … John isn’t here anymore.“  
„You’re repeating yourself“, said Sherlock angrily and jerked up from his seat. Too fast. The room swayed around him and he had to rest on the armchair briefly. Maybe he did get influenza after all. „What does all of this mean? Is this a stupid joke?“  
„Can I show you where John is?“, Mycroft asked calmly.  
Sherlock sighed. „Will that make you leave me alone?“  
„Yes.“  
„Well then …“

*

Mycroft had to help Sherlock out of the car when they reached their destination. Sherlock shook him off indignantly when they were outside. „Only influenza, presumably“, he murmured to himself and Mycroft raised his eyebrows. Then he sighed and waved to Sherlock to follow him.  
They walked a while. Then they came to a wall with a gate. Sherlock frowned. He knew this place. „The cemetery“, he said quietly. Confused. „What has this got to do with John … Oh. He visits Mary’s grave. Of course. But, usually, he doesn’t go alone. Strange.“  
Mycroft threw him a concerned look from the side. Sherlock didn’t notice.  
They went along the narrow path which Sherlock already knew very well.  
The way to Mary’s grave. He had been here with John a few times.  
He always stood behind John who looked down at the gravestone without saying a word. He didn’t cry. After a while, he turned around and they left. It was strange.  
In these moments Sherlock wanted to do or say many things, but he wasn’t able to. Something held him back.  
So he only stood there and waited for John, until they went home and acted how they always did. Sherlock never told John about these feelings. The feelings, he felt in John’s presence. Feelings which confused him. Frightened him. Amazed him. He wanted to share them with John. He needed help with them. But it wasn’t right…. Not at the moment.  
Later, he always thought. Later. When John is better again.

Sherlock and Mycroft got closer Mary’s grave and, finally, there he stood, with his back to them.  
_John._  
Sherlock smiled involuntarily. A warm feeling grew in his stomach.  
John did not stir when they came nearer. He stared at Marys grave which Sherlock couldn’t see as John was in the way. “John”, said Sherlock softly.  
John didn’t react.  
„Do you see him?“ asked Mycroft beside Sherlock with a suffocated voice.  
„Of course I see him“, answered Sherlock, still irritated, and shook his head. „And do you have to be so loud? Can’t you see that he needs silence right now!“  
Mycroft suddenly turned to Sherlock and reached out for his wrist again, like he did at Baker Street. Before Sherlock could escape his grip, Mycroft pulled him to John. When they stood beside John, Mycroft said with a cold voice: „Look! Look closely, Sherlock!“  
Sherlock angrily shook off Mycroft’s hand and wanted to say something apologetic to John, about lack of decency, when his look fell on the gravestone at which John stared so intensely. At the inscription on it. It was not Mary’s grave … It was another gravestone beside Mary’s. _John H. Watson_ , it said in curved black letters on grey stone. _Beloved brother, friend and companion. In eternity._  
Sherlock stared at the gravestone in confusion, a numbness taking over his body and Mycroft’s voice reached him like from another world. „John is dead, Sherlock. He has been, for nearly two weeks now. You were at the burial. You gave the speech. You threw dirt on his coffin. You brought flowers to his grave. With Mrs. Hudson.“  
“No”, whispered Sherlock hoarsely and swallowed. A rumbling suddenly filled his ears. „This can’t be. John … Nevertheless, John is here.“ He turned helplessly to John’s shape. However, it had disappeared. Instead, he only saw the rows of graves and people wandering between them.  
John was gone.  
John was …  
John was dead?  
No.  
No.No! Sherlock winced, when Mycroft’s hand suddenly was on his shoulder. His voice was full of grief and compassion. „I am sorry, Sherlock. John is gone. He was hit by a car when he crossed a street while drunk. His injuries were too severe. It was a tragic accident. And you must understand this. These things happen. But life goes on for you. For me. For everybody. I know that you miss him, however … now you must let go. Have you seen yourself lately? When was the last time you ate … When was the last time you washed … You must wake up from this dream world!“’  
“No”, said Sherlock once more. He felt nothing. He broke loose from Mycroft and reeled some steps back, away from the grave. „This isn’t true! This is … it is a trick!“  
“Sherlock”, said Mycroft beseechingly and stretched out a hand to him. „It is true. Trust me! You must understand … I know, you blame yourself …”  
„No!“  
Sherlock stepped back from Mycroft and, finally, he ran away. He ran as if wild dogs were chasing him. He kept running until his lungs burnt and everything was spinning round him.  
He stopped and leaned against a tree. He breathed hard …He squeezed his eyes shut.  
It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. John wasn’t … No. He didn’t tell him.  
John couldn’t be dead.  
Sherlock sank to ground when his legs gave way under him. He vomited onto the humid grass but only burning bile was left in his stomach. He saw John’s lifeless body before him. He saw it in the morgue.  
The tranquil face. The closed eyes. The eyes which would never open again.  
John would never smile at him again.  
He would never again admire him for his deductions.  
He would never again sit with him before the fireplace and drink tea with him.  
Never again…  
Never…No …  
Sherlock sobbed convulsively and, finally, lost consciousness.

 

  **Saturday.**

Sherlock awoke in a hospital bed. Mycroft sat beside him and looked at him with a sad expression on his face. „Oh Sherlock“, he said quietly. Full of grief.  
Sherlock closed his eyes again. He felt light. And infinitely heavy at the same time. Floating in an empty space. Mycroft’s voice came to him like from far away. Indistinctly. Blurred.  
„I’m so sorry …”

*

„Do you believe, one can die of a broken heart, Mycroft?“  
Mycroft looked up at Sherlock’s weak words and looked at his brother’s pale gaunt face. He swallowed. “I think so, Sherlock“, he said quietly and honestly. „I think so.“  
Sherlock looked at him and slowly nodded. His eyes closed again. „I want to go home, Myke“, he whispered. “Please”.  
Mycroft felt his own heart shattering into pieces at his brother’s words and he foresaw their true meaning only too well.  
He didn’t want this.  
Not in this way.  
However, he did not have the right to ignore Sherlock’s wish. Not anymore.  
„Alright“, he said quietly and laid a hand on Sherlock’s damp forehead. Alright. 

 

  **Sunday.**

Sherlock gently ran his fingers over John’s favourite jumper with his fingers. He buried his face in it and inhaled. It smelt of him. So much that it hurt.  
Everything hurt… This was a pain like no other Sherlock had ever felt before in his life. It was the pain of loss. It was the pain of unlived love. And it was the pain of regret.  
Mycroft was right. Sherlock secretly blamed himself.  
He had not been able to save Mary and her child from Moriarty’s sniper.  
And he had not been able to protect John from himself.  
John should have been happy - then Sherlock could also have been happy.  
Now, however, nothing was left. Nothing.  
Outside, the sun came out. For the first time in days. As if the weather wanted to mock him.  
Sherlock laid John’s jumper carefully on the bed beside him. He was in John’s room. Here, he had often observed John sleeping.  
He had waited for eventual nightmares. Had watched. Had fancied, had imagined, how he would tell John about his feelings.  
Sometime. When John was better. Sometime. And now it was too late.  
Now, there was nothing left and nothing to gain.  
He opened the small box which laid in his lap. The little syringe in it looked so harmless. „Forgive me John“, he whispered. „I know, I have promised … But I must do this. Only one last time. I’m nothing without you. I’m sorry.“  
A single tear fell onto the glass of the syringe.

*

Later, Mycroft found him in John’s room. He was lying on the bed. His head on one of John’s jumpers. Mycroft stood in the door for a moment. The sight before him made his legs weak and he supported himself with a hand on the door frame. His look laid frozen on the peaceful face of his brother and on the fingers of his right hand, firmly buried in John’s jumper.

 

_The end lasted seven days._

**Author's Note:**

> Visit me on [Tumblr](http://currently-in-my-mind-palace.tumblr.com/) for more ;)  
> Beta: [bakerstreet-irregular](http://bakerstreet-irregular.tumblr.com/)


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